


A Truth So Simple

by dreamlittleyo



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Canon, F/M, First Kiss, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 07:49:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2724452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When d'Artagnan looks at Constance, he <i>sees</i> her. For that alone she would like him, but it's everything else about him that slowly turns growing fondness to love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Truth So Simple

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theepiccek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theepiccek/gifts).



> Happy, merry, epically gleeful Yuletide! I had a blast writing this story, and I very much hope you enjoy it. :D

Constance Bonacieux is not a woman inclined towards resentment, but anger is a feeling she knows all too well. It's impossible to resist, really, when every breath is steeped in the injustice of a world that thinks she is _less_ simply because she is a woman.

Her husband is not an intelligent man, nor is he a kind one. She will allow that he is not cruel, for what little that is worth. But he doesn't love her, even if he comes as near as he is capable. It hardly matters. She has never loved _him_ , either. How is she meant to care for a man who measures her on the same scale as his favorite pair of shears or the silver in his cupboard? His entitled fondness for her is no consolation at all. Most days she dislikes him enormously. Other days—honest days—Constance hates him. 

Hate is an emotion that sits poorly in a heart as kind as hers.

D'Artagnan's arrival changes everything by imperceptible degrees. He is young, and earnest, and utterly infuriating. He erupts into Constance's life with all the noise and pride of a a Gascon farm boy, and she cannot resent him for it. D'Artagnan carries a splash of excitement with every stride, and if he's a little too brusque to be charming, well, that is a fault easily overlooked. He hides nothing, and so there's no mistaking the generous loyalty that guides his every decision. Constance admires loyalty. She admires many things about the intense young man who's tripped sideways into her life.

When d'Artagnan looks at Constance, he _sees_ her. For that alone she would like him, but it's everything else about him that slowly turns growing fondness to love.

It is terrifying to realize that she loves him. But Constance is an honest woman, especially to herself, and she will not deny a truth so simple. 

Acknowledging the truth doesn't mean she has to be reckless. Constance has more than one reason to guard her feelings, though she has little doubt of d'Artagnan's affection in return. He's an honest soul and a terrible liar. But he is also a young man with connections of his own. Constance doesn't need to know Milady de Winter to fear her; a moment's acquaintance is more than enough for one lifetime.

Still, it is nice. To suspect—to _know_ —that d'Artagnan is watching her every bit as closely as Constance watches him. It's nice to have a friend, and to feel as though they share a secret. 

When Bonacieux dies it's an accident that should be a tragedy. It is the idiocy of men fighting that kills him—a stray ball from a pistol fired in anger—nothing but a brawl taken to the streets. Constance learns the names of the parties responsible, but they're no one she knows. She never learns if they are punished, and the truth is she does not care. There is ample danger in the city. She's experienced enough of it first-hand to know. 

Bonacieux's death _is_ tragic, in its way. Such a senseless waste of human life. Bonacieux has been Constance's husband, a devoted man if not a caring one, and she knows she should mourn for him. At the least she should worry for her own welfare with him gone. Her husband's wealth—which was not considerable to begin with—passes not to her but back into the hands of a brother with better claim. 

"I want to help you," d'Artagnan says, standing beside her at the small, simple funeral outside the city.

"You don't need to help me," Constance answers softly. She watches with a dull feeling as dirt is slowly shoveled into the hole. The coffin disappears beneath crumbling earth, and the sight hits Constance with a strange and uncomfortable detachment. She is a widow now. Surely she should feel something more than this.

It's not only to reassure d'Artagnan that she has spoken so calmly. Bonacieux may have been a cold and selfish man, but his family is honorable. They won't leave her destitute. Bonacieux's brother is a man not unlike him, perhaps a little warmer, with a wife who has been kind to Constance. A life with them will mean leaving Paris to join their household, and though the thought of leaving weighs her down, Constance is no stranger to resignation. 

D'Artagnan stays by her side that night, sitting with her through a sleepless quiet. There's worry in his eyes, and in the way he hovers close, and Constance doesn't know how to reassure him that she's fine. She will not miss Bonacieux, and she refuses to feel guilty over it now. 

Within the week, before Bonacieux's brother can arrive to collect her, Constance receives a summons to the palace. Her heart very nearly stops when she's shown into a sprawling salon, and finds Queen Anne herself standing near enormous windows that reach to the high ceiling. The queen smiles at Constance—a benevolent expression that warms with amusement when Constance offers a flustered curtsy—and then gestures her nearer with an imperious hand.

"Madame Bonacieux," the queen says in a voice both gentle and delicate, "my sincerest condolences for your loss." Her eyes glance lower, taking in the black fabric of Constance's dress, the only color she will wear during this disingenuous year of mourning. 

"Thank you, your majesty." Constance stares at the floor. "Is there... some service I can do for you?"

"Perhaps," the queen says. "I know the timing is not ideal, and of course I mean no discourtesy... But I find myself in need of a dressmaker. Tell me, Madame. Have you experience as a seamstress?"

"I... Yes." Constance raises her eyes in surprise, tries not to gape at her majesty's unfathomably calm expression. Constance worked as a seamstress right up to her wedding day, and even in Bonacieux's house she had ample occasion to ply that trade. Not just on clothing of her own, but to supplement her husband's income, which was sometimes stretched thin in keeping his difficult business interests afloat. 

"Excellent." The queen's smile is disarmingly bright, and Constance finds herself returning it, hesitant but genuine. 

It seems she won't have to leave Paris after all.

Bonacieux's house is sold, his business interests auctioned off piecemeal once his brother arrives to oversee the arrangements. When the work is complete, he doesn't urge Constance to accompany him home. If anything, he seems pleased that Constance has discovered her own employment. He doesn't ask whence comes her good fortune, and perhaps it's lucky that he does not. Constance would have no answer for him. She has reason to suspect more than one interested soul, and no desire to confront any of them. Treville is most likely to have the necessary access to the queen, and the sway to arrange something of this magnitude. But there is also d'Artagnan, who has prevailed over the impossible so many times in their short acquaintance. There are Athos and Porthos and Aramis, with years of loyal service to their king, and friendship for Constance that she has never had cause question.

She doesn't know who to thank, and so she is grateful to all of them.

Constance finds herself a room to let in a rundown but quiet neighborhood, near enough the palace for her work. The room is tiny, and between her work table and her narrow bed there is barely space to stand. She loves it with every breath in her body, because it is hers. Her gratitude to whoever vouched for her to the queen doesn't diminish the fact that, for the first time in her entire life, Constance has chosen for herself. She belongs to no one, and it is the headiest feeling she has ever known.

"Congratulations." D'Artagnan's voice startles her. She glances to the right and catches sight of him at the edge of the road. Constance slows and lets him fall into step beside her. She is returning home from the palace—already she wonders if the journey to and from the queen's presence will ever feel commonplace—and she is glad of his company. Barely two weeks Constance has been in her majesty's employ, and any nervousness she may have felt has been assuaged by completion of the first fine dress, delivered this very night to the queen's chambers. 

She has two more orders to complete now, and though it's not glamorous work, it is enough.

"And what trouble have you been getting up to?" she asks in a teasing voice. It's impossible to spend so much time at the palace and _not_ hear rumors of the king's Musketeers. D'Artagnan may not be a Musketeer in name, but there is no question he belongs among their ranks. Constance wonders where he's staying now, and hopes it's with one of his friends among the regiment.

"I'm never in trouble." Impish innocence glints in d'Artagnan's eyes. His generous mouth twitches at one corner, and he walks with a deliberate swagger, his hands resting atop his belt as he matches her stride.

Constance swallows back a laugh and dons an expression of exaggerated seriousness, stopping in the middle of the thoroughfare to peer up at him. "I'm sorry, Monsieur, I must have mistaken you for someone else. The d'Artagnan I know is _always_ in trouble."

The twitch at the corner of d'Artagnan's mouth materializes into a genuine smile, and Constance enjoys the surge of warmth in her chest as she falls once more into step beside him. They must surely look scandalous walking together in such high spirits, him a charming soldier in the making and her a young widow in mourning. Try as she might, Constance can summon up no hint of repentance. 

"How are you, Constance?" d'Artagnan asks, his expression falling cautiously somber. "Truly?"

Constance considers her words with care, but her answer is entirely truthful. "I'm well. Really. Her majesty is kind and generous, and I hope to do her good service." 

D'Artagnan's arm brushes against hers, and they walk in silence for a time. They've almost reached Constance's lodgings when he murmurs, "I'm glad you chose to stay in Paris. I would have missed you."

Emotion tightens her throat, and she is surprised at her own reaction. She would have missed him, too—perhaps more than she could have borne—but to hear him say it so simply is a different thing entirely. An undercurrent of raw feeling runs beneath his words. His eyes flash like fire as he looks at her, and Constance opens her mouth only to discover she can't speak.

All too soon they reach the door of her lodging house, and Constance wishes she could find her voice to invite him up. Her room may be tiny, but she would welcome d'Artagnan into it just the same. 

Instead, he gives her a cryptic smile, and leans down to press a chaste kiss to her cheek.

"Goodnight, Constance," he says, his voice a brush of warmth across her skin.

Then he retreats, disappearing down the crowded street, and Constance can only watch him go.

Her first six months in the queen's employ aren't uneventful. There's no end of danger and intrigue at the royal court, and some days it's all Constance can manage to keep her head down. Other days she doesn't even try to mind her own business. When the Musketeers need her help, she will never refuse.

In the wake of the would-be assassin who nearly succeeds in murdering both Treville and the Duke of Savoy—both details to which Constance should not be privy—d'Artagnan agrees to teach her to fight. Swords, pistols, even the intimidating and unreliable musket. Constance is greedy to learn, and d'Artagnan is an excellent teacher. 

Their lessons quickly become the best part of her week, and she is quickest at her own work when she has sword practice to look forward to.

"What is this?" she asks. The sword he's handed her today is far too new to be one of the spare weapons from the Musketeers' garrison. The blade is perfectly smooth, the grip slightly smaller than standard, and the entire weapon is perfectly balanced when she takes it in hand. 

"A gift." D'Artagnan grins. 

"Oh, d'Artagnan," she protests. "I can't. It's too much!" He still has no commission, no income but for the rents from his farm in Gascony; surely he can't afford such an extravagance as this.

But d'Artagnan only looks smug and says, "It's not just from me. We all want you to have it." She doesn't ask who he means by 'we'. Athos, Porthos, Aramis. Perhaps even Treville. Self-conscious as the gift makes her, Constance smiles as she slides the blade back into its scabbard.

"Thank you," she says, and means it with all her heart. The moment stretches long between them, no noise but birds and crickets in the empty grass of their usual practice field. For an impossible instant Constance is certain d'Artagnan will kiss her.

Then he smiles, sheepish warmth, and says, "It's getting late. Can I walk you home?"

It's not late—they've only just arrived—but Constance nods and takes his arm.

The sun has begun to set when they reach her front door. Constance sets a hand to d'Artagnan's arm, knowing she can't let him leave. His gift in her hand is perfect, not just because it's a beautiful weapon, but because she knows how few men would consider it a fitting possession for a woman. 

"Come inside," she says before he can bid her goodnight as he always does. "Please."

He doesn't touch her as they climb the stair, or as Constance leads him along the narrow hall to her own room. There are half a dozen other lodgers in this house, and any number of them could be home. Most mind their own business, but Constance appreciates d'Artagnan's discretion just the same. She sets the sword on her work table as d'Artagnan closes and latches the door, and now, finally, they are truly alone.

She finds him lingering beside the door when she turns around. His obvious reluctance to presume is charming in its own way, and Constance offers an inviting smile. D'Artagnan holds motionless as he takes in the small room, but his attention quickly fixes on Constance as she crosses the narrow space that separates them.

"Are you all right?" she teases. He looks nervous and hopeful—a perfect mirror for the feelings fluttering in her own chest—and she prays they are understanding each other as well as she thinks. 

"Never better," d'Artagnan answers, sounding flustered. Constance is near enough to feel his body heat now. Her breath speeds as her gaze drops to his mouth, and every nerve in her body sings at her to _move_.

She closes the last of the distance between them, framing his face with her hands and leaning up to take his mouth in a sudden kiss. D'Artagnan comes instantly alive, and his arms reach for her, wrapping tightly around her waist. He crushes her close, all eager heat, and she slips her arms around his shoulders to hold on. 

Constance has never been kissed like this, and she finds herself dizzy long before lack of air can be her excuse. D'Artagnan's hands are restless on her, and Constance breathes a gasp into his mouth as she reaches for the buckle of his belt. Distracted as she is by d'Artagnan's hands, it's still only a matter of seconds before his belt and weapons clatter noisily to the floor.

He moves then as though the sound has granted permission, fumbling at the tight laces of her dress. His fingers are inexperienced, his efforts more frustrated than effectual, and Constance laughs against his lips.

"Let me," she breathes, grinning wider at the sparkle she finds in his eyes when she pulls away. 

D'Artagnan pushes off of the door then, pushes Constance forward with a growl, and Constance laughs again.

"It's not much of a bed," she apologizes breathlessly as her skirts brush the low wooden frame.

"It will do," d'Artagnan says, and kisses her once more.

They sleep little that night, and not because the narrow bed is an awkward fit for two. In fact, with a little shuffling about, they're able to settle together in relative comfort once their energies are spent. The small span of floor is a mess of their clothing, and the air is chilly, but Constance is warm enough. D'Artagnan is a furnace beneath the covers, holding Constance close against his side. His chest rises and falls beneath her cheek, and her fingers trace easy patterns along his bare skin. 

"I have to leave Paris tomorrow." D'Artagnan leans down to press a kiss to her temple. "An errand for Treville. But I should be back in a couple days. We can spar again when I return."

"Spar," Constance echoes, the corner of her mouth quirking with mischief. "Is that what we're calling it?"

D'Artagnan huffs a low laugh and says, "I meant with your new sword." Then, after a deliberate pause, "but I _was_ hoping we might do this again, too. Can we?" 

Constance presses herself upright just far enough to kiss him. When she pulls away she finds him watching her, and the soft expression knocks pleasant feelings loose in her chest. "Is that enough of an answer for you?" she asks.

D'Artagnan smiles, soft and slow. "It will do for now."

It's a week before he returns to her, bruised around the edges but relatively unhurt. No errand for Treville is ever straightforward, but at least d'Artagnan is in one piece. Constance finishes her own work quickly so that she can meet him outside the city before dusk, with just enough light to try out her beautiful new sword. They spar lightly—d'Artagnan's wounds are minor but not painless—and they return to Paris with the sunset.

When she invites him upstairs, d'Artagnan instantly accepts.

Routine becomes something more like ritual as the months pass and the seasons change. It seems no time at all has lapsed when Constance finally abandons her mourning garb and returns to the colorful dresses that have been packed away for so long. That night, warm beneath her hands, d'Artagnan says the words Constance hasn't dared to expect from him.

"I want to marry you. Someday. When I can provide a proper living." He pauses, swallows uncertainly, and adds, "If you'll have me."

"You're serious?" She gapes at him, startled, and feels immediately guilty for the hint of hurt that flashes behind his eyes.

"Of course I'm serious," he says. Then more quietly, "You don't need to decide anything now. Just think about it? Please?"

"All right." She finds it surprisingly difficult to wrap her mind around the possibility. 

It takes her a week to answer him, not because she's uncertain, but because their paths cross only fleetingly in that time.

"Of course I'll marry you," she tells him at last, her chest warming at the way those words light a ridiculous grin across his face. "Someday. When we're both ready." 

"Thank God," d'Artagnan says. And then, even though they're standing in the middle of a crowded street, he tugs her into his arms for a kiss. 

"You are incorrigible," she mutters when he releases her. 

"But I love you," he agrees amiably, heat and affection alight in his eyes.

"And I love you," she says. She's never spoken truer words in her life.


End file.
